"At the office. He's working late."
"It's almost eight. He must've left before sunup this morning. I take my walk at six-thirty, and he's already gone. What's with him?"
"He likes to work."
"If I had a wife like you, I'd stay at home. Couldn't make me leave."
Abby smiled at the compliment. "How is Mrs. Rice?"
He frowned, then yanked a weed out of the fence. "Not too good, I'm afraid. Not too good." He looked away and bit his lip. Mrs. Rice was almost dead with cancer. There were no children. She had a year, the doctors said. A year at the most. They had removed most of her stomach, and the tumors were now in the lungs. She weighed ninety pounds and seldom left the bed. During their first visit across the fence his eyes watered when he talked of her and of how he would be alone after fifty-one years.
"Now, they won't give me garden of the month. Wrong part of town. It always goes to those rich folks who hire yard boys to do all the work while they sit by the pool and sip daiquiris. It does look good, doesn't it?"
"It's incredible. How many times a week do you mow?"
"Three or four. Depends on the rain. You want me to mow yours?"
"No. I want Mitch to mow it."
"He ain't got time, seems like. I'll watch it, and if it needs a little trim, I'll come over."
Abby turned and looked at the kitchen window. "Do you hear the phone?" she asked, walking away. Mr. Rice pointed to his hearing aid.
She said goodbye and ran to the house. The phone stopped when she lifted the receiver. It was eight-thirty, almost dark. She called the office, but no one answered. Maybe he was driving home.
An hour before midnight, the phone rang. Except for it and the light snoring, the second-floor office was without a sound. His feet were on the new desk, crossed at the ankles and numb from lack of circulation. The rest of the body slouched comfortably in the thick leather executive chair.
He slumped to one side and intermittently exhaled the sounds of a deep sleep. The Capps file was strewn over the desk and one formidable-looking document was held firmly against his stomach. His shoes were on the floor, next to the desk, next to a pile of documents from the Capps file. An empty potato-chip bag was between the shoes.
After a dozen rings he moved, then jumped at the phone. It was his wife.
"Why haven't you called?" she asked, coolly, yet with a slight touch of concern.
"I'm sorry. I fell asleep. What time is it?" He rubbed his eyes and focused on his watch.
"Eleven. I wish you would call."
"I did call. No one answered."
"When?"
"Between eight and nine. Where were you?"
She did not answer. She waited. "Are you coming home?"
"No. I need to work all night."
"All night? You can't work all night, Mitch."
"Of course I can work all night. Happens all the time around here. It's expected."
"I expected you home, Mitch. And the least you could've done was call. Dinner is still on the stove."
"I'm sorry. I'm up to my ears in deadlines and I lost track of time. I apologize."
There was silence for a moment as she considered the apology. "Will this become a habit, Mitch?"
"It might."
"I see. When do you think you might be home?"
"Are you scared?"
"No, I'm not scared. I'm going to bed."
"I'll come in around seven for a shower."
"That's nice. If I'm asleep, don't wake me."
She hung up. He looked at the receiver, then put it in place. On the fifth floor a security agent chuckled to himself. " 'Don't wake me.' That's good," he said as he pushed a button on the computerized recorder. He punched three buttons and spoke into a small mike. "Hey, Dutch, wake up down there."
Dutch woke up and leaned to the intercom. "Yeah, what is it?"
"This is Marcus upstairs, I think our boy plans to stay all night."
"What's his problem?"
"Right now it's his wife. He forgot to call her and she fixed a real nice supper."
"Aw, that's too bad. We've heard that before, ain't we?"
"Yeah, every rookie does it the first week. Anyway, he told her he ain't coming home till in the morning. So go back to sleep."
Marcus pushed some more buttons and returned to his magazine.
Abby was waiting when the sun peeked between the oak trees. She sipped coffee and held the dog and listened to the quiet sounds of her neighborhood stirring to life. Sleep had been fitful. A hot shower had not eased the fatigue. She wore a white terry-cloth bathrobe, one of his, and nothing else. Her hair was wet and pulled straight back.
A car door slammed and the dog pointed inside the house. She heard him unlock the kitchen door, and moments later the sliding door to the patio opened. He laid his coat on a bench near the door and walked over to her.
"Good morning," he said, then sat down across the wicker table.
She gave him a fake smile. "Good morning to you."
"You're up early," he said in an effort at friendliness. It did not work. She smiled again and sipped her coffee.
He breathed deeply and gazed across the yard. "Still mad about last night, I see."